


Hawkeye- Leave it all Behind

by mage_girl



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:50:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mage_girl/pseuds/mage_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a short fic in which Clint considers his relationship with the rest of the Avengers. And Coulson, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawkeye- Leave it all Behind

It’s hard to stop living in the past.

Clint knows this. He knows that he should be able to shake the past from him, like a dog shaking off water, or like his own boot shaking off the snow after he’s out tromping in it when he needs to think. It’s not that easy though and the triggers he’s learned to live with, the compromises he’s made in the hour of the wolf, well, that’s part and parcel of who he is.

Still. He takes a good look at his new team, at the not quite whole, not quite falling apart people who are the earth’s answer to the very worst mankind or alienkind can throw at them and he wants to either laugh or cry. If it’s a bad day, he wants to throw up until there’s nothing in his stomach.

Clint prefers high places. He’s learned that the higher he is, the more out of reach he is and that’s not a bad thing. The quieter he is, the less the chance of discovery and he’s learned to move noiselessly from high vantage point to high vantage point. When he was very small, he learned to stay out of the way, he learned to read peoples’ faces and timbre of voices. He still quivers in response at times, ready at a moment’s notice to swing his body up onto the next highest level and then on up and out of sight. He shouldn't be on high alert; but it’s bone-deep, it’s dog shit that hasn’t quite washed clean of him.

Clint doesn’t talk about living with his parents. He doesn’t talk about the terror or the pain. He doesn’t talk about being sent from foster home to foster home, the indelible feeling of ‘unwanted’ seeping into his soul. He doesn’t talk about Barney. 

Clint tells stories about the circus. He talks like a carnie, dressing up his life in glitter and paint, throwing gaudy and hair raising stunts into the mix. He knows how to misdirect and he knows how to throw anyone off the scent if they get too close to the reality of a small circus when the lights turn off. There’s sawdust, deceit, heartbreak, and the musty smell of regrets. 

Clint has little patience for assholes. He has even less patience for procedures and protocol, the lifeblood of the assholes of the world. He can assess the situation with a half turn of his head, a focused gaze of his hawk’s eye, and his inner landscape of checks and balances. Steve might be the acknowledged strategist of the group but Clint knows the value of retreat and reorganization. Clint sees the literal big picture view as he assesses from up high.

Clint is like one of those stacking Russian Dolls. He has layers and layers to him; there is the wise cracking Clint that fits into the pointman Clint that fits nicely into the nobody Clint that hides the orphan-child Clint who is tucked away deep inside.

Clint knows Tony knows about his past because Tony has to know about everyone and also, if anyone doesn’t want to sit and get deep about his childhood, it would be Tony. Clint doesn’t worry that Tony is going to want to sit and talk about feelings. Clint knows he has an ally who will bluff and redirect from Clint and Clint would do the same for Tony. Clint has to admire Tony’s bravado and schtick. It takes one to know one and while he and Tony might compete from time to time as to who can hog the spotlight the most, Tony admires Clint’s tenacity and Clint, well, he doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s dead keen on the various special arrows Tony tricks out for him. They might tug at the spotlight, seeing as each of them have their own darkness inside and the spotlight chases that darkness away for a while but they respect each other. Tony is fellow survivor, clown, and Santa Claus all rolled into one to Clint. He figures if anyone would try and tell Tony dirt about Clint, Tony would let them know what a waste of time it was to bother him; and then, he’d let Clint cap that person’s ass with a tranq arrow to teach the idiot a lesson. Yeah, Tony wouldn’t give a damn.

Clint knows Bruce doesn’t care who he was or what he did. Bruce is concerned about the here and now and since he’s had plenty of his own moments of please take this back, if I only could that manifest every now and then into the Other Guy, Clint’s not worried. Bruce smiles at him shyly and if Clint catches that flicker of green deep in his gaze, it’s like seeing a kindred spirit flare for just a moment.

Clint knows Natasha hasn’t thought of him as less than her ever since she gazed at him with those old woman little girl eyes when he brought her in. Natasha is comfort and pain, familiarity and risk. Clint considers himself lucky that he is one of the very few people who know her who can get past the mirror face she puts on for the world. Clint never worried about Natasha, either. The moment she put her hands up and dropped her knife between them, they balanced each other within a hairbreadth. Neither have any desire to snap that thin line.

Clint knows Steve values him as a team member. He admits he feels a warm glow when Steve claps a hand on his shoulder and praises him for a job well done. He enjoys sparring with Steve, making bad jokes that have Steve’s eyes narrow in exasperation, and sharing the kitchen as both of them liked to cook or bake to destress. Theirs is a working relationship based on mutual respect for each others’ skills. Besides, Clint’s seen that world-weary grief in Steve’s eyes and knows that Steve wouldn’t judge him for having such a shitty start in life. Clint knows Steve’s own start in life wasn’t roses, either.

Clint knows Thor regards him as his jokester in arms and that’s all right with him. Thor’s enthusiasm allows Clint’s inner jester to unleash some pretty good ideas. Clint’s never underestimated Thor, either. He might sketch the parody of a buffoon from time to time but there is great intelligence, shrewd wisdom, and godliness that lays over Thor like his red mantle. Clint figured if Thor knew the particulars of his childhood, he’d clap a hand on Clint’s arm and say something along the lines of ‘tis a shame they didn’t see their treasure in hand’ or some such archaic phrase. Clint could pretend to be annoyed yet nod at Thor’s glint of understanding and they’d go on from there. It wouldn’t matter to Thor at all.

Clint knows Coulson has a dossier on him about two feet thick, filled with incident reports from previous handlers. Clint doesn’t take fools and bullies well and isn’t one to hide his light under a bushel. There are reams of paper, in triplicate, to attest to Clint’s refusal to bow down to authority. On the contrary, Clint’s more liable to cross his arms and stiffen his back and not give an inch. Yet Coulson showed Clint he wasn’t a fool or a bully; he had no patience himself for Clint if he was unprofessional. Coulson demanded Clint live up to his full potential and Clint, after picking his jaw up from the floor, was determined to show Coulson he could not only match that but could beat it. It took Clint a while but he had to admire Coulson being able to con the con man. If Coulson knew about the beatings and the loneliness and the silent tears in the night, he wouldn’t think any less of Clint. Clint knew the hawk could fly down to the arm of the handler and be treated with the same respect as before.

Clint feels as though he’s finally found a home amongst these ragtag survivors. It reminds him of the camaraderie of the circus sometimes. It gives him something that’s eluded him most of his life. Stability is good. Friends are good. 

It shouldn’t matter anymore. He shouldn’t have to be on high alert but it’s bone deep; it’s the past that sticks to him like the scent of dirt and grime on a dog that doesn’t have a place to call home. It sucks that he still feels like that dog at times. He hopes but isn't sure when that feeling will fade to nothing, that he can trust the past will remain in the past. He'd like to think it's all over and gone.

Still. Clint stays up where others can’t reach him. Clint keeps his bow skills sharp. Clint keeps the shadows and the triggers and the faultlines close to his chest, resting gingerly on his aching , bruised, little boy heart.

**Author's Note:**

> My ever living thanks to aphrodite_mine for her awesome beta skills. And for talking through some finer points with me.
> 
> I find a whole lot of kinship with Clint; aspects of my own past mirror his and I found it easy to write about it, thinking of him and me. 
> 
> It's been a while since I've been able to write...school is eating up my time but I think I'm over the worst of it.
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
